"inhumanity" poems
1995 saw the start of Generation Z,
the ‘iKids’ with a knack for this new-fangled technology,
Millennial 2.0,
caught in the limbo of the World Wide Web development and Rose Gold iPhones.
They say we’re adaptable,
but apparently we can’t make our own decisions about anything.
They say that we don’t care about anything
except for our tiny little screens,
but they forget who put them in our hands,
and they forget who they run to for help
when they forget how to troubleshoot.
They forget what kind of technology we need to keep sustaining life in the Information Age,
Caught in a crossfire because
Yeah, we’re 90s kids—but the 90s never really actually ended until 2006,
the only difference between two decades being
how much neon versus how much chrome,
and just how expensive accidentally opening the internet app on your mom’s blackberry phone was.
We’re nostalgic for all the things we can’t quite remember,
and half these high schoolers weren’t actually born until 2000 or 2001.
Most of us aren’t old enough to even remember 9/11, nothing outside of the news clips that our teachers show us in history class every single September.
I was born in the same year as the Columbine shootings.
The United States has not been at peace for a year of my life.
We are always fighting— fighting for everything.
Human equality,
posing arguments about micro aggressions and refugees, seeing the inhumanity in the past that we’re living.
None of us are older than 21,
under such hard scrutiny while Baby Boomers Wave 2 still run our country.
We inherited the Millenial’s exhaustion,
the generation before us spending our childhood fighting for all the things that we have never really believed in.
Fairytales.
Generation Z.
The ‘iKids’ who are going to one day be making leaps and bounds with technology,
the generation to nurse this dying planet back to health,
Millennials 2.0 who know how to learn from our forerunners’ mistakes,
who know how to adapt from Sidekicks to iPhone 6S Plus in less than a decade.
We’re the kids who have realized that fun is found in safe spaces rather than invading each other’s personal spaces.
They say we’re too sensitive,
but at the same time they claim that we’re desensitized.
And I thought we were the generation that couldn't make decisions.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 9:21 PM UTC
I.
“No doubt they’ll sing in tune after the Revolution.”
-Kamarovsky, Doctor Zhivago (film)
Everyone seems to clench his fist these days
In solidarity with ephemera
While setting fire to green recycling bins
Hurling someone else’s bicycle through a window
Armed with their undergraduate degrees
The comrades liberate a coffee shop
Wifi-ing the revolution of the day
Empowerment by beating love to death
Loudsplaining authentic victimization
Posing for selfies with a stolen ‘phone
II.
Their inhumanity seemed a marvel of class-consciousness, their barbarism a model of proletarian firmness…
-Doctor Zhivago, p. 349
Everyone seems to clutch his flag these days
In solidarity with a past that wasn’t
While setting fire to misspelled cardboard signs
Hurling someone else’s beer into a crowd
Armed with their lurid Confederate tats
The Something.Right liberate a dumpster
Bull-horning the counter-revolution
Empowerment by beating love to death
Bellowing their Reconquista of stench
Posing behind their cheap gas station shades
III.
“I used to admire your poetry...I shouldn't admire it now. I should find it absurdly personal. Don't you agree? Feelings, insights, affections... it's suddenly trivial now. You don't agree; you're wrong. The personal life is dead…”
-Strelnikov to Yuri, Doctor Zhivago (film)
Some few embrace civilization these days
In solidarity with humanity
While lighting one small candle as a votive
Whispering an Ave into the Light
Armed with wonder through pen and flute and brush
Recusants choose the liberation given
In singing of the eternal verities
Self-empowerment happily denied
With love, with poetry, music, and art
Celebrating life on this summer day
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 5:09 PM UTC
Not near-sighted; not far-sighted
Just blinded by stupidity
By rich inhumanity
Lack of love in society
Absence of insight; omission of outsight
Just censored curiosity
Loss of credibility
Condemned abnormality
Futures foresighted; actions unsighted
The past, no punctuality
Death by immortality
Buried from reality
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 7:33 PM UTC
reloading old identity
cleping outdated usernames
abandoning acrostic ambitions
disputing spratly islands
receiving horizontal signals
tumbling otiose panda
impending carefree senility
otiose stage of life
shrinking ambient world
making minimal effort
duchamping social networks
ambushing personified ennui
restoring usual efforts
ignoring stupid people
adding textual value
owning this joint
rejecting ignorant extroverts
acting mutually unintelligble
hoisting stan-lee cup
replacing wanton ubiety
eluding twitter fame
splashing excessive relativism
offending another simpleton
preparing arcane cthulhusphere
crashing unpredictable festival
selecting subtextual moombahton
intensifying model topography
drafting minimal cornucopia
using nomadic project
implementing harsher personality
importing robotic inhumanity
referencing landmark event
ingesting excessive liquids
accepting relative invisibility
purchasing immortal confidence
using rhapsodical database
assuming nothing works
developing impactful eruptions
ejecting ambient frustration
synthesizing tactile festival
raining during parade
mocking rich people
mastering minimalist writing
avoiding preprandial stinkaroo
spreading non-ideological propaganda
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
Vengeance is for God to have, But today I lay religion down to rest
The demon in my mind has been relentless, whispering at my behest
He has been in his cage far too long, he is unyieldingly repressed
I not only want to free him, I want to put his imagination to the test
My mind's eye dark and searching, the corners of my sinister mind
I have now become your worst fear and mine devils intertwined
My mental and emotional state, has made the inhumanity refined
I hate how you made me long for your pain, I am now your kind
Your flesh is but a canvas and your screams will be to no avail
You’re now mine, your soul will beg for mercy on the grandest scale
I will assault your every sense, leaving no minute detail
Until your body is lying lifeless, pointless, broken and frail
I will take my time to revive you, bringing you back to my device
There will be no amount of pain I inflict, that my heart will suffice
Before I am done with your miserable existence, infliction so precise
I will nourish every animalistic desire,until we felt you paid the price
You have uprooted in my heart an evil, that cannot be undone
The angel of death is upon you waiting, your suffering just begun
There is a special place in hell for you and I want you to see it
And if I burn with you for my revenge, then I say so be it
Taking your pride, shoving it down your throat with my baron hands
all that I can taste right now, what the voice in my head demands
For you there is no more wasted life, your breath will let you endure
And there is no second thought behind my vengeance, my hate is pure
With deeds now done and lifeless you lay
At my feet, which death did not show haste
A smile without tears did appease my lust
For your soul and blood that I did taste
Jan 20, 2011
Jan 20, 2011 at 6:45 AM UTC
I turned on the news tonight, and saw a familiar face
Maya Angelou speaks of Nelson Mandela
“His day is done, our skies are leadened.”
It hit me then,
Forgiveness is more than “Oh…it’s okay…”
If a man, a single freed prisoner, can change a whole country,
can forgive oppression, and depression, and apartheid brutality,
Forgiveness is not simple.
Sorry is not simple.
It’s a chance, to open the door to redemption,
Entire countries have forgiven the inhumanity of the past,
And yet all of us, each day,
Become angry for such small matters.
If nations can rebuild,
If Polish person can love a German
After the Holocaust,
We CAN forgive.
Forgiveness is the key to our self-imposed prisons.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 12:53 PM UTC
The oppressive yellow filth
forces its way in.
Takes over the green blanket.
Ignoring it’s a sin.
A casual passerby,
views this unwanted war.
Discord versus conformity.
An everyday chore.
Calling in reinforcements.
Escalates to chemical warfare.
The cruel inhumanity,
because we couldn't share.
A fight for cleanliness,
and a fight for purity.
A useless endeavor.
A wasteful battle of immaturity.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 7:44 PM UTC
In this fRaGmEnTeD cage,I hear checkpoint moans;
anticipating our prone-positioned
brothers and sisters held
Prone positions against walls
Prone positions against fences
Prone positions against vehicles
Prone positions against buildings
Prone positions against prone positions
Slam-whacked, bloodied, occupied
like our great nation; like our souls
I remember a prophet's call, " love your neighbor
as yourself "
I hear Palestine weeping from Jenin
to Hebron, from Jerico to Gaza seized
I hear lamentations about blood tales
I see only FrAgMeNtS of our land
I see FrAgMeNtS of our proud people
Lo and behold my Palestine quakes as an earth quake
Doves scatter skyward as a prophetic omen
Blue skies and Sun momentarily claim victory
Then inhumanity's ugly face:
America to its Indians, America to its blacks,
America to women, America to its gays,
America to Mexicans,
America to South and Central America,
America once to Southeast Asia,
America to Islam, America with its war crimes,
America and Israel both innocence died
So, we pray Koran's verses upon our prayer rugs
We gesture all hope
The apartheid surrounds us
The dead talk to us
The smoke surrounds us
Perhaps better days we say
Entwined with bizarre everydayness
we accept sleep with fits
Fits without food;
Fits without crucial welfare
Roads, shelters, mock us
sculptured by missiles and bulldozers
Bully-bombs exploding in a reign of terror
We pray upon our prayer rugs
Bully-bombs exploding in a reign terror
And oooh how those awful missile FrAgMeNtS fly
and Muhammad cries with anguished tears, in this writtened
legacy...in written legacy
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 5:21 AM UTC
Heartbeat,
Heartbeat that went live when I cried into the world
Heartbeat that went up the first time I felt happiness
Heartbeat that went up the first time I saw my mother's smile
Heartbeat that goes up every time I am with my friends
Heartbeat that goes up every time I hear his voice
Heartbeat that now goes up with every scream in the world
Heartbeat that goes up every time an innocent soul is taken away
Heartbeat that shatters at every time I hear a girl's cry in the air
Crying for her life and mind taken away by devil's in human shapes
Heartbeat that screams every time inhumanity wins over love
Heartbeat that finally goes up with every hope
Heartbeat that still believes life is worth living
Heartbeat that cherishes life and happiness
Heartbeat that protects true friendship and soul connection
Heartbeat that I listen to, heartbeat hidden in my heart
Hearbeat that pours my soul's scream into lines
Heartbeat that guides my mind out of the darkest depths of despair
Heartbeat that will stop the day I'll leave this world
Heartbeat that will seal my journey
Heartbeat, heartbeat, heartbeat...
Jun 17, 2020
Jun 17, 2020 at 4:58 PM UTC
Through so many years I ran
Afraid and ever cowering
The darkness always at my back
Voracious, all-devouring
Through my mind its black claws reached
And picked apart my sanity
They scraped all chance of joy away
With endless inhumanity
Through the days and months and years
it chased and clawed relentlessly
Eventually I wondered why
I ran unending breathlessly
Through the dark I turned and looked
Pursuit suspended nervously
I granted it a name and face
It glared with vicious fervency
Through its threat I held my gaze
And ventured forth an inquiry
Its flare of rage could not repress
My newfound curiosity
Through the long nights we conversed
Debating, chatting, bickering
The darkness that devoured my life
Shrank back, diminished, flickering
Through the darkness I now saw
With unexpected clarity
We spoke as friends, no longer foes
Embracing newfound parity
Through the dark I look, and laugh
My friend now laughs along with me
Despite how it had always seemed
The darkness is a part of me
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 2:11 AM UTC
New York, Tel Aviv, Moscow, London, Netanya,
Bali, Istanbul, Riyadh, Beslan, Nisanit, Dublin
Londonderry, Glasgow, Manchester,
Spin Boldak (district), Kuta
Kano, Baghdad, Kandahar
Mumbai, Karballa, Boston
All for God, the almighty
God, the inhumanity in his name
God, the creator
I am weeping for the latest terror victims
141 injured in Boston
3 dead in Boston
Jesus Saves...tell that to the dead
When will it end?
I have nothing....just tears, and an emptiness
Confusion
I leave you all with your prayers, for all of those lost
Over time, to terrorist attacks listed and not listed
I pray for the lost, the living and the future
I remain confident in mankind....
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
Brigid was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice still runs near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
Little's known of Nellie's early years;
Da died before she knew grieving tears,
They'd turn her eyes in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her look is distant,
Her face is blurred,
But recognizable
In an instant.
She was schooled six years
To last a life,
Some math, the Irish,
To read and write.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God and Grace and sin.
There were no vows for Nellie then.
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie,
Relieved their worry.
War flared, men were few,
There was work in Coventry.
Ireland's thistles were left to bloom.
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin followed,
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
And brought the mill to life again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself
A generator,
Providing power
To lights and wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Daddy's angel.
Is this what turns
A father strange?
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no borders
For brothers and sisters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland.
Daddy was waiting for family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
Jimmy and Marlene left us too,
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came, she was Granny,
Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I'll sometimes whisper her one name,
Mammy.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 5:09 PM UTC
I stare at the television news....
Assaulted by violence
Stunned by the inhumanity of a
Godless society
I listen to the radio....
Embarrassed by ads that tout
Promiscuous pleasures
Outraged by the thinly disguised
Decadent discourses of the shock jocks
I read the newspapers and magazines....
Cuckolded by corporate America a
Loser in the games politicians play
Violated
Shamed
Cheated and
Betrayed
I try to turn it all off….
but like a bitter pill the distasteful images linger
nor can I go along with eyes shut and ears muffled
living
or not
in a padded room of my own making
I cannot function without information….
tho my senses are
Wounded by the
Brutality of the media
I yearn for thoughts to ease my distress....
like a mother’s soft whispers to her crying baby
like the beauty that shines from faces that know love
I don’t want the perception of reality that the media rapes me with....
I want the truth revealed by God in His creation
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 9:06 AM UTC
Perhaps there are 100,000 forms of darkness,
100,000 forms
of what they call depression.
I know one
or two of them.
There is no suffering scale, no way to compare
the suffering of one
human being,
or one illness
to another.
So we hold candlelight vigils
build totems to gather the universe and pull
back clarity around one another’s edges
But I can't burn sage inside me.
It may attract the bad you hide from. Or
is it the good that scares you?
The world beyond the bond
of hearts is a town
without pity.
A dull inhumanity of systems failing the people
we don’t look at.
In this way the brittle tethers of association are tested.
Hand in hand greeting the blackening sky, bearing
down like the face of a missing child’s parents,
staring at one another
knuckles clasp tight.
Your smile the remaining mirror at the end of the world.
If you were here, or I there
I’d be home right now. On the inside
we’re both waiting for one
another still.
Because I’m the same,
but not.
I am ruthlessly forgetful.
Names, birthdays, work schedules.
But I know the way your hair looks in motion.
The way your face looks
refracted through a cigarette ember.
How when your mood shifts,
the church in your eyes
becomes torn, battered, and bare.
If we could just give
another go-round.
It would be different,
Remember,
your best.
Where you are, might
be, may go.
When it used to feel so good.
Apr 27, 2018
Apr 27, 2018 at 11:58 PM UTC
I was raised by a pack of fools
Who proclaim Caucasians are the best.
And are glad to fight, at the drop of a hint
To put the whole matter to the test.
They have an entire joke routine
And descriptive names they repeat
In minimizing and insisting that
Their right to decent treatment isn’t real.
There are references to some animals
And unfunny comments about color.
The statements about characteristics
Of body and features always go together
With a special set of gross anecdotes
To cover any kind of non-Christian belief.
And the refusal to consider equality
As a decent attitude stands in bright relief.
Beneath all this horror, not very deep,
Lies a sickening river of hate and fear
That fails to improve as education is
Rejected year after disgusting year.
Pointing out the error of their ways
Might earn you a punch in the eye
But the bigot hangs on to their rage
And never gives fellowship a try.
The American Bigot claims to be
A staunch Christian all the way through
Which forces them to hate and cheat
And lie as much as Jesus would do.
Of course, we know that Jesus was
A preacher of love and acceptance
But it seems that bigots never quite
Made that Jesus’ acquaintance.
So, here we can see we need to add
Some terms to this kind of individual
Whose relationship to peace and love
Is at best slight, scant and residual.
We also need to append to their titles
Of masters of anger fear and prejudice
The unhealthy pallor of indecency,
Dishonesty, inhumanity and cowardice.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 11:33 PM UTC
A drugstore pallid in waning light, always illuminated in halogen halos.
I am earless with music.
Black metal loud in clanging sets and blows-
foreshadowing the smell of cleaning solution,
air freshener and the outside
sweet at my back
all steeped deep in the rip roaring undertone torrent of cigarette smoke
blended with cheap perfume until I cannot tell the difference.
There is a limp familiarity to the underlying odor
born partially of personal encounter and-
nestled in the hive mind of social experience.
A distillation of regret and remorse,
of lonely,
of irrelevance;
this black hole swallows my voice the way of my ears,
eaten by rust.
Four cans of beans,
kidneys,
in cans squeezed without any power against sagging swells
melting into other curves
and I swerve close and around guiltily,
noting you only as the source of this pungent spring.
You are smiling apologies
ignorant of my apparent inhumanity-
blind to my selfish hands..
Pinioning belly flesh,
flattening,
reaching
and gaining attendance from a better man
retrieving every dropped can.
I’m retreating,
shaken,
tense to alternatively slacken.
My sweat slippery palms with whitened red sharp fingers feel foreign
and I am surrounded by razors then shaving cream,
moving from shampoo to conditioner,
the whole store is infected with smell.
Staring at nail clippers/snipers clipping touch smooth sooth my tense mind-
don’t look
**don’t
look**
I can sense little else but dread
drawing closer
you are now crouched so close I’m gagging,
taken forcefully-swept away in an olfactory flood
roiling in rot,
currents of solitude exude from your smiling sullen appearance when I turn to you
fumbling
with my electric ears,
surfacing
in a breath of Amish silence
broken with simple request
and I want to scream at you that I am not a man to ask opinions of
that it does not matter what fake nails she glues to her body
that she is excluded and I don’t know why.
I choose swirls of cream suspended within watery milk,
over childish lady bugs framed by yellow
or dots of red alternating to black,
an epitaph to a lifelike effigy.
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 1:42 AM UTC
But such people-
the mighty, the powerful
the rich, the pseudo- intellectual
the influential
are the most odious
what **** sapiens?
they are the mal-products
of evolution
who bring shame
to the human race
in their inhumanity
bullies
narcissists
items of assorted pathology
but they can't see-
' We are the authority
and can't do wrong'.
In the newspapers
they are the centre-piece
their pride oozes
from their every paw
but time brings down
even the mightiest
and such people end up
as discarded old newspapers
in the dust-bin of history
where they belong so appropriately.
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 6:19 PM UTC
My
Head is pounding,
heart is thumping,
my tears are flowing
and this of late,
is all I know:
Humanity seems to be
beyond control.
Humanity seems to have
lost its collective soul
and I honestly don't know
where I need to go...
Sometimes I think I might drown
in all the sadness
in all the pain
the torment and inhumanity
that seems to surround
me no matter where I travel to--
no place is safe anymore
nothing is sacred
or respected or revered
Humanity seems to have
truly and completely
disappeared...
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 5:49 PM UTC
Can you outrun the history
Of violence and oppression
If you felt every inch of terror
That was birthed from the bombs
Every bit of anguish and loss
If you paid the same wages of war
Then maybe you to would see
The inhumanity of drones
If your stomach growled
With a pain so deep
And you could not sleep
Because of the fears you keep
Maybe you would not stand
For this poverty
If every bullet hole
Cut partly into your skin
Leaving painful impressions
If the nightsticks bludgeoned
Your beloved
And you watched your oppressors
Armor up for in house war
Maybe you would abhor
Police brutality
If the circle of kinship
Surrounded more than just this
Small social club you claim
Then maybe the pain
Of others would touch you
Something as of late
It has failed to do
Maybe you could use
A little empathy
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 3:12 PM UTC
I see you,
Drinking from the water of inhumanity
Smoking the leaves of ingratitude
And eating the seeds of hypocrisy.
Observing you,
I found myself drunk of sorrow.
And it makes me,
Drink from the water of insomnia
Smoke the leaves of melancholy
And eat the seeds of solitude
So I can, finally,
Be drunk of madness
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 3:16 PM UTC
Bridget was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice still runs near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
What's known of Nellie's early years?
Da died before her grieving tears,
But burn her eyes in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her visage blurred,
Her eyes look distant,
Yet recognizable
In an instant.
She attended school for six short years,
The three R's, some Irish,
And a Doctorate in tears.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God, Grace and sin.
There were no vows for Nellie then.
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie
To relieve their worry.
War flared up, and men were few,
So the work in Coventry
Left Ireland's thistles to bloom.
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin were carried.
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
To work the flax mill again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself a generator.
And powered the lights and the wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Father's angel.
(Is this what turns
A father strange?)
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no family borders
For brothers and sisters, sons and daughters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland in familiar songs.
Daddy was waiting for family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
Jimmy and Marlene left us too,
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came, she was Granny,
Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I'll sometimes whisper her one name,
Mammy.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
I do not know poetry
I know my toenails are too long.
I can feel them snag on the sheets that I haven't washed.
I'm out of toothpaste
my teeth feel grimy,
my gums raw
I waited all day to see you
so you could tell me that you don't like my sweater
You say you don't know how to talk to people who are in pain.
You are exasperated with the burden of humanity inherited by humanity
You are easy when you numb yourself constantly
Anger is righteous to accuse you
Defense is a child who is confident
All the villages you've saved but not me
I remember pain
I am so disappointed with your inhumanity
because no one can fail but me
You can read the look on my face
I can tell
So don't make me say things I can't
Pain is a vacuum
It doesn't exist in perfection
In an absence of sound,
even though it itself is so loud,
is inaudible
While I am at the bottom, God is at the top,
and you are somewhere in between
You are blocking the view,
misleading the people
You claim nothing but we demand something
When I left your house I wanted to crash my car into a ditch
Instead I drove home.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 4:42 AM UTC
Another poet from another age,
Proudly standing the pressure of the locked cage,
Racing heart beating in a fitful rage,
Innocent as a blooming pitcher sage,
Colours flying in fits of energetic madness,
Eagles watching from the mountain ledge,
Thousands of actors on stage,
Ongoing act of inhumanity,
Perhaps one day they'll realize,
Another day the sun won't rise from the east, nor set in the west,
Youthful wishes, sighs of deception, apocalypse
(acroustic: A PRiCE TO PAY)
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 5:23 PM UTC